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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2:Trial by Blade

The quiet of the apartment seemed almost unnatural after the whirlwind of what had just happened to me. The memory of Delhi's streets, the truck, and that cold, mechanical voice still clung to my mind like shadows after a storm. I stood there for a long moment, letting the city's distant hum seep through the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching headlights snake through New York's arteries far below.

Six month until the sky tore open.

The thought sat heavy in my mind as I finally turned away from the glass. I needed answers—not from the system, because I had no doubt it would only speak when it wanted to—but from myself. The voice had said I had the Immortal Body. That was more than just healing—it had to mean something. But what? How far did it go? Could I survive anything?

Only one way to find out.

I stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway that led toward the kitchen. The space felt as pristine and untouched as a display in an upscale furniture store. The floor was a polished oak that seemed to hum under the soft recessed lighting above. When I entered the kitchen, it was like stepping into a glossy magazine photo—modern minimalism with just enough warmth to feel lived in.

The cabinetry was seamless—sleek, handleless panels in a clean matte white, stretching from floor to ceiling. The backsplash was a rich vein of gold and beige marble, its swirling patterns catching the light in subtle waves. A narrow wooden breakfast bar jutted out like an elegant extension of the countertop, supported on one end by a matte-black steel frame. Two bar stools stood there, their white cushions unmarked, waiting for someone to sit.

To the right, the counter ran along the wall beneath a wide window. The evening light caught in the stainless-steel sink, which was flanked by a black serving tray holding a pomegranate and a crusty loaf of bread, both looking as if they'd been placed there for an artful still life. In one corner sat a compact coffee station—an espresso machine, a grinder, neatly stacked cups. The smell of roasted beans lingered faintly in the air, though it was clear no one had used it recently.

And on the far side, on a rich wooden cutting board, lay the thing I was looking for: a knife.

Its blade was long and gently curved, a chef's knife crafted from steel that shimmered with faint, swirling patterns—Damascus steel, maybe. The handle was polished wood, warm-toned and contoured to fit the hand perfectly. It looked like it belonged to a professional chef, not an ordinary apartment kitchen.

I walked over and stood there, staring down at it. My reflection wavered faintly on the metal's surface, my dark eyes framed by the tousled strands of hair that had fallen across my forehead. I reached out, fingers curling around the handle. It was heavier than I expected, its balance perfect, the blade catching the overhead light in a pale flash.

I swallowed.

Cutting myself open wasn't exactly a normal first step in testing a superpower. But this wasn't a normal life anymore. If I was going to survive in a world of gods, aliens, and monsters, I had to know what I could endure. Hesitation prickled at the back of my mind, whispering that there were safer ways to test things. But that whisper faded quickly when I thought about the future.

When I thought about Loki.

The Chitauri.

Thanos.

No… in this world, hesitation could kill me. And the truth was, I'd always been the kind of person to leap before looking—games, movies, and comics had taught me enough to know that heroes who didn't commit fully didn't last long.

I braced my left arm against the counter, turning the blade in my right hand until its edge hovered just above my wrist. The steel gleamed, a silver crescent against my skin.

Just do it.

I took a deep breath, feeling my pulse against the underside of my wrist. Then I slashed.

Pain exploded instantly, a white-hot shock that shot up my arm like an electric current. The knife bit deep, the sound a sickening, wet whisper as it parted skin and muscle all the way to the bone. Blood welled up in a hot, dark rush, spilling over my skin in rivulets.

My vision narrowed, a spike of nausea twisting in my gut. My first instinct was to scream, to drop the knife and double over, but I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. I would not break.

And then—before I could even register the full force of the agony—the healing began.

It was like watching time reverse. The blood that had flowed seconds ago slowed, the torn flesh knitting together as if invisible hands were weaving me back whole. The blade itself seemed to be forced out of the wound as muscle and skin pushed it free. In the blink of an eye, the cut was gone. Not a scar. Not a trace. My wrist was smooth and unmarked, as though nothing had happened.

I stood there, breathing hard, my heart pounding—not from the pain anymore, but from the realization.

It's real.

I could take a wound that would cripple or kill a normal person and be whole again in less than a second. The Immortal Body… it wasn't an exaggeration.

And then something else happened.

It started as a warmth deep in my chest, like a spark catching in the dark. It grew rapidly, spreading to my arms, my fingertips. A thought—not even a fully formed one—passed through my mind: fire. The warmth surged, and my vision sharpened.

I lifted my right hand, index finger extended, and imagined a flame. No complicated focus, no elaborate ritual—just the idea of it, the desire for it to be there.

And it was.

A small, bright flame danced on the tip of my finger. It flickered in the still air of the kitchen, its light casting long shadows across the white cabinetry. The heat was real, the glow vivid, yet it didn't burn me. My lips curved into something halfway between a grin and a gasp. I tilted my finger, watching the fire bend and sway as if obeying my thoughts.

I realized, with a rush of exhilaration, that it was obeying me. I could make it shrink to a tiny ember or swell until it flared brighter, hotter. I could feel it as part of me, not something borrowed from a lighter or a stove, but an extension of my will.

Two powers.

In the span of minutes, I'd gone from an ordinary teenager to… something else entirely. Immortality. Fire control. The voice had said I'd awaken a new ability every six months—whatever was next was beyond my imagination, but even these first two were enough to shift the balance in my favor.

If I used them well.

The fire winked out at my command, leaving behind only the faint scent of scorched air. My stomach growled suddenly, loud in the quiet room. I hadn't realized it before, but my body was demanding fuel after everything I'd just put it through. Maybe healing at that speed burned through energy like crazy.

I set the knife back on the cutting board, wiping the handle clean with a paper towel. It was strange how calm I felt now—like the fear and uncertainty had been burned away along with the flame.

The hunger wasn't going to be solved here. I didn't feel like cooking, and the memory download from the system had given me more than just this identity—it had given me fluent English, a sense of the city, and even the knowledge of a few places nearby that would make for a decent meal.

I walked to the bedroom to grab my phone and wallet. As I passed the windows again, the lights of New York glittered at me like a challenge.

This world was vast. Dangerous. Alive with possibilities.

I intended to survive it.

And not just survive—thrive.

With one last glance at the skyline, I stepped out, the door clicking shut behind me. Somewhere out there, dinner waited… and so did my future.

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